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I was hunched over the small desk in my bungalow, the glow from the laptop humming before me as noon crept across Paradise Key Private Resort. The detectives had taken everyone’s statements and were now focusing on searching for evidence across the island, blocking off areas where no one was allowed to enter in order to prevent contamination. Meanwhile, they had let us go… for now. I had snuck back to the bungalow to do some research.

My fingers paused on the keyboard, hovering as I scrolled through an old news article detailing the island's dark history. It wasn't idle curiosity that had me digging; it was desperation, a mother's need to shield her daughter from accusations that seemed to breed in the humid air.

"Murder," they whispered behind cupped hands, eyes darting toward Olivia with morbid fascination. And the detective—well, he made it clear that my help was unwelcome. But how could I not intervene when every sideways glance accused my child of being a killer?

"Not my daughter," I muttered under my breath, the words a silent vow. Olivia was no murderer, and I'd stake my career on proving it. Everyone else was still huddled up at the main house, but I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. I decided to do some digging instead. There was one thing I couldn’t seem to get out of my head. Aunt Beatrice had mentioned that the island had a history, and that intrigued me. What kind of history was she talking about?

It didn’t take me long to find out. Apparently, there had been another murder on the island some ten years ago, and as I found the articles describing it, I almost lost my breath.

The screen before me displayed the ghostly image of a young girl, who the article said was only sixteen at the time of her death. Her name was Isla, and her last name was Walton.

Walton? As in Mark and Victoria Walton?

I stared at the photo and read further as everything fell into place. Isla was Mark’s older sister. She, too, had died on this island.

What in the…?

I kept reading, my heart pounding in my chest. Apparently, she had drowned, just like Mark. But marks on her throat told a story of her being strangled or held down in the water. Water in her lungs told a story of drowning; that was what the autopsy concluded: death by drowning. Marcus Cole, the name attached to her death, had confessed to her murder. He said he attacked her by the cove on the other side of the island in anger because she had cheated on him with someone else. He grabbed her by the throat and strangled her. Then he panicked when he saw her lifeless body and realized what he had done. He felt for a pulse, but she was already dead. He even tried CPR. He stood there for a few minutes, staring at her, trying to figure out what to do. He then threw her in the water, hoping no one would find the body.

Reading this made me stop.

"But why would she have water in her lungs then?" The thought jolted through me with the force of a thunderclap. How? This was basic knowledge. Water doesn’t enter the lungs if the person is already dead. Because, if they are no longer breathing when they go into the water, there's nothing to drive water into the lungs. Your lungs have a single tube for both entrance and exit. If water tries to enter, it's blocked by the air already present.

If you drown, on the other hand, you're still trying to breathe, meaning that you're trying to pull air into your lungs and end up pulling in water. Isla’s death sounded more like she had been strangled while held underwater.

The inconsistency gnawed at me, a bone thrown to the relentless dog of my analytical mind. Something wasn't right. The confession was off, the details twisted into a shape that couldn't fit within the framework of truth.

"It’s impossible," I said aloud, breaking the room's silence. I had to dig deeper and peel back the layers of deception that clung to this case like the stubborn vines along the stone pathways outside. For Olivia. For justice.

"Let's see what else they've got wrong," I whispered, my resolve hardening. The stakes were higher than ever, not just for the truth but for my daughter's future.

Without hesitation, my fingers flew across my phone's screen. I found a familiar name, pressed the call button, and held the device to my ear; the ringtone pulsed like a rapid heartbeat. Questions swirled through my thoughts, each demanding attention.

"Simmons."

"Agent Simmons, it's Eva Rae Thomas." My words cut through the line, urgency underpinning each syllable.

"Eva, to what do I owe the pleasure?" His voice was calm and steady in the chaos. We had worked together for years in the FBI, and I knew I could always trust him to help me.

"I know it’s Saturday. But I have an old case that I need to learn more about. Paradise Key. In the Marcus Cole confession, a young boy of only seventeen said he killed his girlfriend, " I said quickly, dispensing with pleasantries. "Something's off."

"Go on," he prompted, interest piqued.

"Marcus claimed he killed Isla before putting her in the water. But she had lots of water in her lungs, and the autopsy said the cause of death was drowning."

There was a pause. A thoughtful hum sounded from his end. "Maybe she wasn’t fully dead? Maybe falling in the water made her wake up and breathe in the water?”

“He said he felt for a pulse but found none. He even tried to perform CPR, which tells me he knows how to look for a pulse.”

“Mistakes happen in confessions, but you think there's more to it?"

"More than a mistake. I need your insight."

"Alright, let me pull up the file. Give me a sec," he replied, the sound of clicking keys leaking through as he pulled out his laptop.

"Time isn't a luxury we have," I pressed, glancing at the sky outside. “There’s been another murder. Same island, same family.”

"Really? Now that is suspicious, indeed. Here we are," Simmons said after a moment. "I see what you mean. Discrepancies could point to…."

"Coercion?" I offered.

"Or a cover-up. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Someone else is behind this," I affirmed, feeling the sharp edges of a larger conspiracy taking shape. “And that someone just killed again.”

"Be careful, Eva. This is big, isn't it?"

"Very big," I admitted. "It involves my daughter now."

"Say no more. I'm in. What do you need?"

"Everything you've got on Marcus Cole and any connections to the island," I demanded, my tone brooking no argument. “Any inconsistencies in the old case.”

"Consider it done," he assured me, and I could almost hear the gears turning in his seasoned mind. Simmons was a genius in my book. "You'll have it by morning."

"Thanks, Simmons. I knew I could count on you." My grip on the phone eased slightly.

"Always, Eva. Watch your back out there."

"Will do," I promised before ending the call, determination steeling my resolve.

I stood up, feeling the bungalow walls closing in on me. I had to find and talk to Olivia. Make sure she was okay. As okay as possible. I was worried about her. She left the main house to go for a walk, she said, when I hurried back to my laptop. She hadn’t come back yet.

The humid air hit my cheeks as I stepped outside, the tropical paradise suddenly feeling more like a well-manicured prison.

Flip-flops clicking against stone, I marched along the pathway, each step punctuated by the whispers of palm fronds. I used Find My Phone to track her. It usually did the trick. Conspiracy theories chased each other around my mind, demanding attention. They swirled like the breeze, impossible to grasp but undeniably present.

The resort's beauty mocked me; its serenity was a stark contrast to the turmoil within. Worried about my daughter, I picked up the pace, my resolve hardening with every stride. The truth was hidden somewhere among these opulent trappings, and I would tear down paradise itself to find it.